


Lovers At A Great Divide

by CalliopeSpeaks88



Series: Spellbound [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Romance, Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Humor, Minor Violence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:39:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalliopeSpeaks88/pseuds/CalliopeSpeaks88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have decided to turn my one-shots about Hawke and Fenris into a story. These chapters will be drabbles about their seperation and their relationship etc. Hope you all enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scarred

**Author's Note:**

> * I do not own Dragon Age. All characters and story belong to Bioware. The following is my simple offering to the franchise. Also, if you like this story then please read The Ballads of Lady Hawke and The Fenris Wolf. It is the prequel to this series.

She found herself wandering the dank deserted hallways of one of her greatest losses and biggest regrets. Mother, I should have come to you sooner. I failed you, thought Hawke. The dispirited daughter sighed heavily, releasing the air within her lungs slowly. So slowly it burned. Her throat felt acrid. Dry. Shakily, Hawke brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, only to be dumbfounded by the wetness she felt there. She had unconsciously been weeping. Hadn't she already shed an ocean's worth of tears? How could one person possibly carry so much liquid?

I guess I must be made of water. Amused by this revelation, Agnes began to chuckle. Her sobs quickly morphing into stilted laughter. Funny how ones life can implode on one in an instant. Once she had a father, a house, an easy existence in a small town with her family and the next, nothing. Zilch. Father became ill, dies. Hawke, reeling from the sudden absence of her beloved Papa has no time to grieve. She's thrust into the role of the head of household. She had no other choice. Dearest mother had become hysterical in her sorrow, doing nothing but crying all day.

Fast forward three years, and the dark spawn attack Lothering in a flurry of gratuitous violence. Aggie rounds up her family, as the screams of her neighbors terrify her ears. With their home set ablaze the Hawke clan flees. Hoards overtake them. A mighty Blighted troll easily flanks Hawke's exhausted form. Too weary to out maneuver the creature, Agnes shuts her eyes tight against the troll's final blow. It never arrives. Her sister, Bethany, erects an Arcane shield around her. Before Hawke can react, the gruesome monster throws her sister over a hundred feet from where Beth had stood. Hawke cries out in agony, as her sister's skull cracks unforgivingly: Brain matter saturating the ground around Bethany's fresh corpse.

One year later, we find the surviving members of the Hawke family once more rebuilding their lives. Without much fortune, Agnes and Carver do odd jobs around Kirkwall to keep themselves afloat, and to ensure their mother is comfortable. Hurting for gold, Hawke decides to follow Varric into the Deep Roads. His brother, Bertrand, has set up an expedition to unearth more Dwarvin artifacts. Carver, not wanting to be left behind, ingratiates himself into Hawk's scouting party. "It can't be helped sis," Carver gloated. " I am of age. You may deny me this privilege, but mark my words: I will go despite being in your company or not." What a mistake that was. . . .

Two weeks into the excursion and the adventuring went south. Maker help them! Dark spawn were met at every turn. The monsters swarming in ghastly configurations, seeming to crawl out from the rock to destroy them. In the commotion, Carver fell. One of those disgusting zombies bit him, infecting little brother with the Blight. The Grey Wardens owned Carv's soul now. The youth's very existence no longer offering any personal meaning for him. Because of me, Carver is a man possessed by a creed he never wished to join, and an order he never cared to fight for. Flash forward to the present, three years after her most recent tragedy, and Hawke's mother lies dead. A victim of blood magic.

Sitting amongst the dirt and filth of Low Town, Hawk traces the outline of where her mother had collapsed. This was the spot Aggie had held her, well, what was left of her. The mage almost wretches at the memory. That murderous cock-scum Quentin had transformed Leandra Amell into a badly sown patchwork of body parts. The skin was of all different hues, mainly of an opaque white color and paper thin. So paper thin that the translucency of the flesh enabled Hawke to see the blood flow through the bulging veins. Stitches ran in circles up and down and around the length of her mother's "new" body. Some barely closed up, dripping ichors onto the floor. Oh, and the smell! Maker the smell! Mama no longer permeated the scent of daffodils and honey, but of decay. The only true recognizable feature was her mother's eyes. Through them, Hawke could see her parent's soul.

Shivering, Agnes hugged herself tightly. If only she had been more attentive! Listened to the details of her mother's day to day activities, as opposed to tuning her out. Hawke sighed. She supposed she hadn't ever truly forgiven her mother for abdicating the role of patriarch, and thrusting it onto her. Most of Aggie's youth had been stolen away, thanks to her mother's depression. Now, it was too late for the young woman to ever forge any real relationship with her. As Leandra used to say Aggie was her father's daughter, while the littlest ones (Bethany and Carver) were her living shadows. Never Hawke. Never the eldest one. . . .

"Why didn't I noticed those damned lilies," Hawke shouted. Her outburst echoed off of the ceiling beams in turbulent ferocity, scaring nearby vermin back into their holes. Angry with herself, Hawke let out an ear splitting shriek of frustration. It all was too much. Too much. Fists clenched, the mage summoned the forces of nature to do her bidding. She wanted to destroy this filthy place; obliterate it from existence. In a cacophony of noise and color and earth and fire and ice what little furniture remained of Quentin's was decimated.

Amid the wreckage of what once was a madman's dwelling, Hawke hummed with electricity. The magic within her aching with insatiable veracity. She watched it dance all purple and cackling atop her skin; she was mesmerized by the power of it. Abruptly, he flashed before her memory. There was Fenris before her, his face contorting in pure revulsion. Truly what has magic touched that it didn't spoil? Hawke frowned, shaking. She tried fruitlessly to dislodge the hated mantra from her brain, but to no avail. Fen's words were a discordant bell ringing within her ears. She could no more escape his accusatory question than she could escape the Devil himself.

Biting her lower lip, Agnes felt defeated. Perhaps her gifts weren't gifts at all? Perhaps the sum of her talents could only be classified as a curse. An unseemly canker on mankind; an incurable epidemic. For it was spell craft which had twisted her mother into an unrecognizable corpse bride. Had been magic, which had acted as the catalyst for one bereaved husband's plummet into insanity. Hell, it was no wonder Carver resented her supernatural abilities. It decimated joy. Caused their family to adopt the lifestyles of nomads. Constantly they were on the move, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the chantry. The craft had ruled their lives entirely.

And what of Anders? He was what Fenris liked to can an "abomination." What the templar order considered a maleficarum: A demonically possessed mage. But, it's not as simple as all that, is it? Andy is an honorable man, still very much in control of his own actions. And it's not as if he shares himself with a demon, but with Justice. Anders had met the spirit during a mission for the Grey Wardens. Justice was a righteous ghost of the Fade; his purpose was to aid humanity, not pervert it. At some point during their friendship, however, Justice needed a new host to survive. He came to Anders, requested his help, and Anders had obliged. But now. . . now Justice mutated into Vengeance, and Vengeance would do whatever It felt necessary to get the "ethical" outcome It required. Any innocent lives lost during Vengeance's escapades were considered collateral damage to the specter. It would seem that, no matter where Hawke turned, sorcery only led her down twisted paths.

In despair, Hawke sunk to her knees. She pulled at her robes, scrutinizing the material for any stains. She felt self-conscious. Unclean. She thought of Gascard DuPries, another fine example of magical corruption. She had naively trusted the Orlesian, thinking him the incensed brother out to avenge his sister's death. Oh how wrong she had been. Stupid, stupid girl! All Gascard had wanted was his master's deplorable secrets. I bet he knew mother would be Quentin's next victim long before the abduction happened. And I just stood there, consoling the git for his awful loss. . . .

Aggie swallowed hard. She wished she had gutted the creep before he had fled Kirkwall. Perversely, she smiled at the thought of ripping his lean body asunder bit by bloodied bit, making him suffer for hours. That son-of-a-whore would have deserved it too. But, the reality had been this: Hawke had let Gascard go free.

At the time, Agnes felt that by giving the misguided man his freedom, she was keeping her own soul in check. For her won peace of mind, she wanted to be the bigger person and the better mage. By punishing DuPries, Hawke feared she too would sink into the very depravity that both apprentice and master had succumbed to. However, revisiting her mother's torture chamber had reawakened the mage's initial need for retribution. Her mind had shifted; her soul had flipped in favor of violence. Some men were meant to pay for their crimes. She wanted her pound of flesh.

Aggie grimaced, remembering the cheeky look Gascard had given her while saying goodbye. It had been one laced in arrogance and gloating satisfaction. Maker, what have I unleashed upon the world, Hawke lamented. What future horrors will that wretch commit? And all because of her damn "honor." Maker have mercy on her! She had seen the apostate for what he was, a villain, and had let him disappear back into the crowds of the unassuming masses.

It wasn't as if Hawke had believed DuPries' solemn vow to quit sorcery, let alone blood magic. No, the bastard was much too hungry for power. It had shown in his face, had radiated off his person in musky waves. Hawke scoffed at the memory. Repulsed by the thought of Gascard, Agnes clenched her fists in rage. She sat in wrathful contemplation for a good long while. Sat until her knees ached in protest, and her nimble fingers glistened with blood. Aggie had balled her hands too tightly. Opening her hands, Hawke frowned at the deep gouges she discovered there. The wounds were puffy from irritation, not far from infection either.

Without thinking, Hawke beckoned for the soothing hot tendrils of restorative magic to engulf her. In minutes, the inflammation in her palms had receded, leaving only the angry gouges to heal. About to continue her ministrations, Hawke turned to notice a curious rat scurrying towards her. It's tiny black pupils almost seeming accusatory. "I'm hurt! Healing myself isn't a crime," Hawk spat at the animal. The rat squeaked in response then sat it's fat ass in the dirt. "Fine, judge me like everyone else does. Condemn me for my spell weaving, Maker knows I do. . ."

Defeated, Hawke decides to leave Low Town. She gathers up her staff and what other few belongings she had brought with her to Quentin's hideout. Shuffling her feet homeward, Aggie lets her palms buzz in pain, ignoring her abilities for the evening. Her wounds could stay forever fresh if they so chose, their ache mattered little to her. All the forlorn lass wished for really was a bath, her warm bed and a chance to grieve her losses alone. Alone. Damn how that word stabbed at Agnes' heart.

If only there were someone she could turn to? A firm lithe body to engulf her, keep her safe from her current nightmares? But, in truth, there was no one. Sure, she had her friends. Her merry men as she often called them. Yet. . .their camaraderie wasn't the comfort the lady found herself starving for. Hawke hungered for a different kind of companionship. . . .

Again, Fenris waltzed into Agnes's thoughts. He stood before her in all his towering glory. Green orbs were slick with need, his arms lacing around her possessively. Those clawed gauntlets of his sending shivers of gooseflesh all over Aggie's exposed skin. Made her clothes feel too stiff against her; made her center flush with damp need.

Hawke could almost feel their lips crashing together in sloppy succession. She remembered how both of them were thirsty with desire. How the pent up tension between them was finally released in touches, tongue and tenderness. Gods, how the heat of his breath had made her quake! The harried whispers of his pleasured sighs prickled at her ears, sending Hawke reeling in climax. Sent her falling off a cliff in ecstasy as he explored her. . .as she prodded him in places she never dreamed before.

Cheeks blushing, the mage cursed beneath her breath. It was shameful how much she missed him. Missed him more than she even missed father, mother or Bethany. She needed him, needed the protection he offered. Needed the love of her dearest wolf. Life was cruel however. Hawke's one-time lover would never be hers again. Fenris could no more love Hawke than she could deny her feelings for him. Too much had happened between them since the night Fen had laid her down, and thrusted himself deep inside her. Far too much.

Collapsing within the confines of her room, Hawke lay still. A parade of fresh tears dampened her pillow case. Wearily, the sorceress buried herself beneath blankets and covers and quilts, trying to hide from the bruising sadness which surrounded her. The only lullaby soothing her to sleep being the dull ache of her puffy palms. It wouldn't be until three months later that Hawke used her magic again, protecting Fenris of all people on the battlefield in a circle of fire. As for her hands? Those would be forever scarred, much like the lady's heart.


	2. Captivated

The events of that night (that gloriously perfect night) kept replaying through Fenris's mind relentlessly. Snapshots of Agnes bare breasted, leaning into him began to elate Fen's senses. He could almost grasp her; feel the pliable softness of her flesh. His lyrium burned cool as more images of Hawke swam into his thoughts. The memories whispering pleasurable pulses down to Fenris's core.

He softly purred, imagining his Aggie kissing him. Those lips of hers, those delicious pillows, had caressed his neck in gentle agony once upon a time. Had sent gooseflesh across his skin as he had sung praises in his ancestral tongue. Oh, and the way she had looked at him! It was such an imploringly sensual look. The kind of gaze that could knock even the most stoic of men senseless.

" Hawke," Fenris moaned as gently a prayer. He clutched the arms of his favorite battered chair. Sweat pooled on his brow, as the ache in his stomach grew ever more profound. These memories were too much. Too much. Abruptly, Fen opened his eyes. These vivid recollections, no matter how beautiful, were cruel none the less. As much as Fenris yearned for Hawke, she would no more be his woman. Fenris had seen to that.

Maker, how the listless elf wanted to forget her! To erase the taste, touch, smell and sound of her from his mind. To eliminate her essence from his soul; to pretend that a lady such as Hawke had never born. Fenris tried to achieve his desire with drink. Empty bottles of cheap wine and alcohol were strewn about his floor in ludicrous numbers. It almost seemed as if Fen had sampled all that Thedas had to offer in booze. These drinks could never quench the inherent need to forget though. Yes, they could dull Fenris's ability to feel, but not his ability to love.

Exhaling wearily, Fenris stood from his seat. The light from the moon blanketed his form, casting a halo of white around his silver hair. How had their evening of passion begun? The start of their physical tryst was always a blur to Fenris. He blamed his desire and senses for thwarting him the luxury of this memory. Hazily, he saw himself visit Hawke, his only aim to apologize to her a second time. Thank the mage, again, for forgiving him when he had mistreated her, after she had helped him defeat Hadriana. What he hadn't expected was Aggie to be so damn accepting; her face jovial and open.

I fell into her friendly stare. Those eyes, Fenris thought. Those eyes had been my undoing. Her tenderness had triggered an urge inside of Fen: a primal need to worship Hawke. Fenris had been intoxicated with the idea of just holding the mage before him. His senses lost, Fenris had Agnes pinned securely against him in a rush of want. Then I kissed her, all the while staring into those eyes. . . .

Fenris smiled. Gods, he relished those eyes of hers. There were secrets in those depths that even he knew he may never unlock. Such knowledge equally frustrated and enchanted Fenris. These. . . these were the eyes that could consume you. Cause even the most rigid of souls to willingly lose themselves in their depths. Truly, Aggie had to be the most gorgeous woman in all the land. Everything about her was lovely. Simply lovely. Hawke glowed, her heart making her appear ethereal to passersby. She was (to Fenris) beauty personified.

Hawke. . . . Sweet Hawke. She had offered herself up on a platter for him. Had lain herself naked, giving every ounce of her devotion to Fen with no questions asked. " I should not have left you da'vhenan," Fenris sighed. If only he could be brave enough to face her? Return to the warmth of her safe embrace. . . If only. . . .

Again, the dance they had shared overwhelmed Fenris. It's elegance reducing the gruff loner to tears. It had been honest, a true display of emotions from one beloved to another. It wasn't like the cheap thrills the magisters had sought out. Oh, no. Not he and Aggie. Theirs had been a heavenly joining where two souls mingled. It wasn't the mindless rutting around Fenris had observed in Danarius or Hadriana. That was fucking someone. That was using another person's body to get a tawdry moment of release. His Hawke, she had given Fenris a profound gift. Not only had she bequeathed unto him her womanhood, but her vulnerability as well.

Andraste help him, but Fenris squandered his Aggie's heart. The repressed memories that were unlocked after their love making had overpowered the elf. Visions of his mother, slight and tired looking selling herself on dirty streets. Screams. Guttural screams. Screams of her being hurt in another room, his arms around his sister. Danarius smiling. Offers. Offers of food. Offers of protection. Of security. Of gold. He. . .he signing himself away. Eagerly competing to become. . .become this tattooed dog. . . .Then more instances of blood, yelling, and fighting. Nightmare upon nightmare overlapping until Fenris cannot take anymore of its horrors.

It had been excruciating. The moment of their climax ruined, thanks to forgotten pain. These visions, these ruthless visions, had caused his lyrium to boil, bones to quake and muscles to spasm violently. He and Hawke had moved too quickly. Their one instance of joy decimating a future of happiness. Fenris could not (would not) be hers. Not after this. He was unworthy. Ugly. Disgusting. So, the wretch had walked away from Hawke. Left his bird reeling alone in her darkened bedroom, cold and shaking.

Yet, Fenris's heart was much too full of Hawke to completely forsake her. He fled, but not before leaving with something, anything of hers. Softly, Fenris crushed his fingers around some red material on his right arm: It was a piece of Hawke's robe. A sash to display Fen's unyielding devotion to Agnes Marian Hawke. A favor to stand the testament of time.

Gulping another glass of chardonnay, Fenris stole a glance out his window. He choked on his beverage, gasping for air. There she was just below his perch. Hawke was walking past his residence, her face puffy from crying. No doubt Agnes was trying to lose herself in the shadows of Kirkwall to ease the pain from losing her mother. Wanting to call out to her, Fen quickly opens his window. His voice ready to yell, " Aggie," but it catches in his throat. Agnes is muttering to herself. He can hear her. The apostate hiccupping, " Better walk faster. Hates me. Hates me. Doesn't want to see me." Then her pace quickens, and she is gone.

Wide eyed, Fenris slouches onto his bed. The hurt of her words lashing his lithe form as violently as any whip or cat of nine tails ever could. She thinks I hate her. She. . .she ran from the mere thought of my presence. Emma halam. Sighing, exhaustion overtakes Fenris in a thick blanket of mercy. For now, he will rest. Pitifully, he'll attempt to ignore the sorry state of his life, along with the emptiness of knowing Hawke shunned him. All his fault too. She had loved him. Had treated him as an equal when others had scorned him. Fenris wasn't a slave to Hawke, but a man to grow old with. A man to love.

" She was my miracle," Fen wept. The gleam in her eyes all those months ago had all but confirmed it. It was that look that had fully penetrated Fenris. Invaded his hollow heart with light and song. Maker, how she had frozen his blood like ice! Filling his lungs with water, leaving him adrift with emotions, euphoric emotions he had never felt before. The last thoughts which overtook the blade for hire were these, I will be forever captive, and forever spellbound. I am hers. I am hers body and soul. With this last admission, sleep came followed by dreams of his pretty little mage. She, his captive until the arrival of dawn. She his savior, until Fenris once more awoke bound within a cage of loathing and regret. A cage of his own making; a cage to keep them apart.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

Elvish Phrases:

Emma (EM-mah): I am.

Halam (hah-LAHM): the end, finished.

Emma Halam: I am finished.

Da'vhenan (dah-VEY-nahn): Little heart


	3. Absence

Empty home. Emptier than before. The hallways dustier. No slight footfalls to disturb the dirt. No open windows to welcome any breezes. Only the dark. The twisted dark. The dark of longing; the darkness of a lonely mind. Fenris's apartment could very well be a mausoleum for all its charm. The elf never used to mind his dwelling's sorry state. The coldness suited him. This was Danarius' rundown estate after all. Not his. Who cared if it was a filthy foreboding mess? Then Fenris had become close to Hawke.

Once a camaraderie had been established between them, Fen soon discovered that he couldn't keep the affable Aggie away. The mage would visit him almost every day. His front door would slam and the sounds of her gentle strides would echo off of the manor walls. Whether the elf liked to admit it or not, his sweet visitor elicited a lightness in his chest and in his gait. Agnes had a talent for making Fenris smile. He could feel whole around her.

Such happy times those had been. Hours whittled away by conversation, drink or by Hawke patiently teaching Fenris his letters. His letters. . .reading. . . . Fenris had almost given up on the prospect of furthering his education. Without Hawke around to tutor him, the elf had despaired for a time. However, the thought of disappointing Aggie any further kept the tired student trudging on without his adept mentor. Dutifully, Fenris would lay out all of his workbooks, utensils and extra sheets of parchment to study. He had to excel in this. Had to. He would not fail her again.

At least three hours a day he trudged along, painstakingly rewriting and pronouncing the alphabet. Fenris even had some stories to read. Children's books, but books nonetheless. He'd stumble over sentences repeatedly, causing his tongue to convulse in his unsuccessful attempts at recitation. Yet, the scholar persevered, if only for the sake of the lady he loved. The lessons also ended in a very routine manner for Fenris: The swordsman would chuck all of his study materials across the room. The bitterness of missing Hawke would prevail over dedication after awhile. It couldn't be helped really. He yearned for her, and reading together had always been Fenris's special time with Hawke.

Liquor, his liquid gold would effortlessly rescue him. It replaced any intelligent thought. It was better this way. Better to be drunk than to be cognizant of his ache for Aggie. Gods, what he wouldn't give for Hawke to come to him! His world felt wrong without her. Why did he have to run from her? Why did he have to be such a git? Because of his cowardice, Fenris and Hawke were two separate entities now. Strangers.

Everything seemed torturous without her presence, such as studying. Reading without Hawke hurt. Physically hurt. Caused a stiff volt of melancholy to pulse throughout Fen's chest. How desperately he yearned for her to hover over him while he, once again, buggered up another word. Needed Hawke to be inches from his tall form, if only so he could inhale the pure scent of her. Truly, Fenris had only been learning thanks to Agnes's passion and closeness. He had only been living thanks to her love.

My dearest lady, how you haunt me so, thought Fenris. Quivering, Fen flexed his muscles stunned at the steady pulsation of his tattoos. The ink hummed softly. It was a pleasant feeling, so unlike the fiery response he was used to from the lyrium. Indeed, Hawke was a miracle personified. Without raising a finger, the mere memory of the woman had transformed a branding of evil into lines of pure pleasure. She was Fenris's angel. Thanks to her, the once surly runaway had awoken out of his bland existence.

Hawke had enlarged Fenris's surroundings, gifting him with color and vibrancy and music. She had awakened his once slumbering spirit; fanned the flames of a wolfish heart. Presently, however, there was nothing between them. Their separation was slowly, but surely, draining all the beauty out of Fenris's reality. All of Thedas was becoming muted again. Gray. A soundless nothingness. All that remained was Agnes' scarf.

No, the cloth no longer smelled of honey and cedar like she did. Nor did it shine as brightly as it used to. It was worn down. It's edges frayed. Coloring dulled. Yet, it was still something of the lady's. Torn from the robe Hawke had worn the last evening Fenris had seen her, worshipped her and left her. I wonder Hawke, do you even notice the favor I keep?

Wrapping the stolen sash around his right wrist, Fenris crawled into his bed. The room was as silent as ever. No sound intruded on the elf's surroundings. Nothing but Fen's own movements disturbed the unwelcome peace of the estate. Swallowing, Fenris felt his breath hitching in his throat. He was willing himself not to dwell on his favorite apostate. The lack of Hawke was already alarming, no reason to obsess over it. What could Fenris do about it anyway? His enansal, his love loathed him. He was sure of it.

Nevermore would his lady fair unexpectedly arrive. Nevermore would she confide in him, or reach for him unconsciously in the afterglow of a fight. The gulf between them seemed un-crossable. It would take the Maker Himself to undo the treacherous damage Fenris had caused.

Sighing into his pillow, Fenris turned onto his side. It was too hot for covers tonight. Much too hot. Though. . . if she were beside him, he would gladly reach for her body heat. He would wrap himself around her like a sheath, never letting his beloved go for the world. Hawke would be trapped within his embrace as strongly as Hawke had embedded herself in Fenris's soul. "Come back to me Hawke," Fenris muttered. "Come back to me." But, just as Fenris knew, no reply came. Only the silence persisted. Only the absence of Hawke remained. They were finished. Done. And with that sad knowledge, Fenris drifted off into a fitful sleep. His dreams even devoid of Hawke's pretty face.

*****************************************************************************************************************************

Enansal (en-AHN-sahl): gift or blessing.


	4. Reassurance

When your heart breaks, it doesn't break evenly. There is no perfect split. Not ever. Precision isn't congruent to heartbreak. Instead, the heart fractures in multiple sickening pieces. Cuts, abrasions and fissures blossom throughout the tissue, causing your chest to constrict in agony and in pain. Blood continues to pump, but much too slowly for any living thing to function properly. You begin to feel colder. The winter chill of the equinox takes a firm hold of your senses, making you stumble about, weakened and afraid. You have become the damned. You are as good as dead.

Hawke knew these sensations well. She herself was a newly discarded woman. The weight of having been used transforming her usual blithe spirit into a hardened one. Nothing about her felt right anymore. Her steps were rigid, her pallor ashen no matter what the heat of the day and her bones felt knotted, swollen, like the bones of the old. Then there was the numbness, this clouded apathy which pursued her whichever way she went. Life swirled around Aggie in gusts of movement and laughter and fluidity she no longer registered. She was of the world, but not apart of it.

Her half-life existence began the minute Fenris had shuddered away from her touch. As if Hawke's exposed body suddenly revolted him. Her sheets weren't even cool when he had departed. They were still glistening from the slick sweat of love making when he dispassionately exclaimed, " It's too much. This is too much. We moved too quickly, and I cannot do this." Hawke had then tried to convince Fenris otherwise. She had passionately made her case, stating that she knew without question that she could carry his burdens as easily as she carried him in the center of herself. Her devotion ran that deep, deeper than any veins of oar or gold. Certainly he hadto see that?

" I can help you," Agnes urged. " You don't have to struggle because. . . because I love you." Afterwards, she would recall how she had moved to embrace him, arms wide as birds wings, only to end up hugging air. Fenris had had no desire to be comforted, least of all by her. It had all been so cruel. With each step she had taken, the elf flew ever closer to the door. His answer had been simple enough. He had whispered, " forgive me" and fled.

Days passed in shimmering waves after Fenris departed, melding together in careless clarity. Hawke would always remember those slipstream days. These were the dawns which drenched her in regret and shame. These were the nights that raged within her, echoing sadness. This was the space allotted to mourn lost love, along with a lost sense of self. For really, who was she if she wasn't his beloved?

To save herself from the prying eyes of others, Aggie chose to remain hidden. She stayed inside her room, wishing to see no one and no one to see her. She had cried hot ugly tears into her pillowcase, cursing his name in-between muffled sobs. How could he just abandon her like this? Why? And why did he have to use her? His callous actions baffled Agnes, yet nothing hurt her more than how damn noble he had acted while leaving. That the mere gesture itself was some absurd gentlemanly act, like a knight falling upon the hilt of his sword. By deserting her, Fenris had somehow believed he was preserving Hawke's chastity or some other daft attribute. Such thoughts vexed Hawke. Wasn't she capable of making her own choices? And she had chosen. She had chosen him.

Other moments found Aggie reminiscing about Fenris. The conversations they had shared by firelight or the sheer joy she felt as he read to her, his voice cracking uncertainly over new words flooded Agnes' senses. Maker, she missed him. Missed him terribly. And oh! Oh, how he had melted into her! His lean body shrouding hers in such tenderness. The warmth of his breath tickling her ear felt heavenly. His lanky arms drawing careful circles between her shoulders had tickled, sending sharp waves of pleasure down the arch of her back. Yes, and that gaze of his. . .that disarming gaze. . . .

Fenris's eyes had glowed a bright emerald green, once their lips had separated from their first bout of kissing. The irises had expanded in pure adoration at the sight of Hawke. It had enraptured the lady, consuming her entirely. It had been the "look." The look shared between two lovers who have found their truest homes in the presence of the other. No man other than Fenris had stared at Agnes in such an intoxicating way. No one. Not even Anders, whose puppy dog blues sometimes trailed her longingly when he thought his fellow mage wasn't looking. No, this gaze. . .this was a gaze of passion and heat and sacred promises.

Then there was that missing sash of Aggie's . . . . The fabric having been ripped from her favorite robe around the same time Fenris had left her. Originally, Agnes had thought she had been careless, simply snagging the piece of cloth on one of her midnight excursions to the kitchens, but the woman guessed differently now. The other day, Hawke had glimpsed Fen at the markets. The elf had been standing near a small tent dedicated to weapons. He had been discussing the quality of some used daggers to a shop keeper and, distractedly, had raised his right hand revealing a red sash wrapped around his right wrist. Hawke had almost lost her breath at the sight. That sash. . .it had to be. . . . There was no mistaking that cloth, for it was hers.

Pulse quickening, the mage sought out the Wounded Coast to think. As the sea breeze whipped across her cheeks, Hawke couldn't help but smile at the sight of Fenris wearing her sash. Pained though she was, the woman felt some of her heart's broken pieces begin to mend themselves back together again. Hawke had acquired a flame of hope in the form of a torn silken cloth. She had regained a tiny sliver of her spirit; reclaimed an ounce of her sanity. Fenris's newest accessory proved that he mourned her. It was a testament to his ardor; a silent recognition that he had found their collision beautiful. It spoke the words, " I love you too," when Fenris could not.

This crimson token catered to Hawke's optimism. Fenris might return to her someday. Maker, help her, but he might return. The door to their relationship wasn't completely closed afterall, nor were the locks completely bolted. There was still time: the keys to their futures had not yet been exchanged for other possibilities. Such an epiphany lifted Agnes a bit, causing her current reality to seem somewhat more bearable. A perhaps was on the table, a great perhaps that lead to reconciliations and a young lass's faith in love restored. Hawke could be brought back from the dead.

She had time (they had time) to reassess themselves, which was all the miracle Aggie needed to carry on. The only miracle anybody needs for that matter. Time, Hawke realized, can heal all wounds, and can mend all ailments. Even she, along with her mangled heart, could (and would) be whole again. Resurrection stones were not even needed for this bit of magic. Oh, no. Only the rejuvenating sands of time could save Agnes. Only time, and the resilience of the human heart, no matter how fragmented it may be, for love can conquer all. It just takes hope; it only takes time.


End file.
